Blessed Be (The Third Night)
by Once Beautiful and Brave
Summary: "I told her once that I'd keep her safe. But I couldn't, not then. And I cannot now. What good are vows if a man can't keep to them?"


Blessed Be (The Third Night)

"What if she's done for?"

Reluctantly tugged away from less forlorn musings, Maester Samwell turned his gaze toward the man from whom the hoarsely voiced question had come. He was still a bit wary of him, even after serving House Stark alongside him for the better part of a year, even knowing he had no proper reason to be. Apart from Sandor Clegane's terribly burned face - which was through no fault of his own - and uncharitable habit of snarling at anyone currently in his disfavor - which frequently seemed to be everyone - Sam had found him to be rather tame, especially in their Lady's presence. He barked well enough, just as his long-discarded moniker led one to believe he could, but Sam had never seen him bite. Still, he was wary.

"She seems feverish."

Sighing, Sam closed the book he'd been pretending to read and pushed out his seat next to the hearth. Clegane glanced over his shoulder as he approached the bed and said, "You told me just this afternoon she was better. That she might be waking soon. I'd say she's making a liar of you."

He chose to ignore the rebuke, declining to point out that his earlier assessment hadn't been quite so optimist as all that. He knew it would only make things worse. Sandor had little to cling to but hope and he would not be the one to snatch that away. Mutely he managed to squeeze his bulk between where the captain of Wintefell's guard knelt and the head of the bed, laying his hand on Sansa's pale brow. Shaking his head, he stepped away.

"I don't believe the fever's back. It's quite warm in here, what with the fire burning so hot. She's sweating, yes, but so are you. So am I," he reasoned. He refused to speak aloud what he was thinking, that it mattered little if she were to spiral into another round of the fevers that marked this particular illness. He had done for her all that he could.

The source of the sickness had come from the poor conditions existing in Winter Town, most likely, where it had brought down old and young, strong and feeble alike, killing in alarming numbers. Though he had urged every precaution and seen his suggestions implemented almost immediately, he'd feared it was only a matter of time before it spread past the castle walls and into Winterfell itself. He despised the fact that his fears had been realized, and that someone as gentle and kind as Sansa Stark had become its victim.

"What if she never wakes again?"

For three days and two nights Sandor had been asking the same question. Sam had to grant him credit, though: sometimes he worded it differently, didn't ask it quite so bluntly. But its nature remained the same. He had no gentle answer to offer, no way to lessen the dread that showed dark and glassy in the other man's eyes.

He had often thought that anyone with half a mind should be able to see the high regard in which Lady Sansa and her towering companion held one another. It was a relationship he knew was based on respect and trust. It hadn't taken him much time to figure out it went deeper than that. Not that either of them would admit it – or ever think to act on it - but Samwell recognized love when he saw it.

Even knowing this about the man - that he hid a tender heart – didn't make him easier to talk to. Sam often found himself perplexed as he walked away from any one of their conversations. It wasn't what Sandor might have to say that caused his confusion. Instead, it was that his brusque tone and the intensity of his level gaze was so at odds with dark gray eyes that seemed perpetually mournful - a queer juxtaposition that remained hard to reconcile. He had heard tales of the Hound's ferocity from the time he was youngster, but he could scarce imagine what the man had gone through in the years between his Kingsguard desertion and the day he'd arrived at Winterfell. What had happened to him on the Quiet Isle? He didn't seem to be an especially godly man, if one were to judge him solely by his coarse language and often coarser demeanor. But neither was he the brutal killer he'd once been.

_A riddle made flesh_, Sam thought. "If she survives till morning, the odds are in her favor," he found himself hesitantly offering as he retook his seat. "It's the third night that seems to claim the most souls."

"And if she doesn't see morning?"

"Then we must accept her passing as the gods' will," he allowed with a sigh, "just as we have all the others."

Sandor twisted away from the woman lying still behind him, grunting softly as he eased off his knees and onto his backside. He stretched out his legs before him and settled back against the bed. "Which gods would those be? The old ones she holds to or the Seven? The Drowned God or R'hllor, with his cleansing fire?" Sam took note of how carefully he palmed his thigh and knew the old injury was troubling him. He'd stopped offering unwanted remedies some time back. The pain was his penance, Lady Sansa had quietly told him one day, after he'd gone to her with his concerns. Thoroughly abashed, Sam hadn't raised the issue with either of them again. "Might be it's the god they so love in Braavos," Sandor continued. "There's more than that, even, wouldn't you say? Gods I'll warrant you've never heard of, despite all your learning."

"It does seem that every society comes complete with its own deities. Just think of all the possibilities that lay beyond the known world. People who've most likely managed just fine without any of the things we hold dear. They must have different customs and laws, different foods and celebrations, every one of them. Different gods, too, I'd think. It is very exciting to consider, isn't it? I always wanted to see more of the world than I was able to. Not that I'm complaining, mind you. I've done things I never dreamed I'd do, and seen things that some have only imagined. The world really is quite a marvelous place."

Sam glanced over and shortly began to question the laxity of his tongue. He didn't think he'd said anything untoward, but the look Sandor was giving him was dreadfully inscrutable. He'd seen that sort of look on men's faces before - all his life, really - only now days it more often caused him annoyance rather than distress.

"You're a thinker, aren't you?" the scarred man finally asked, his intent study ending as he closed his eyes and tipped his head to rest against the feather bed behind him.

"Well … yes. Yes, I suppose I am."

"No need to get your dander up over it. I wasn't insulting you. Most never bother to use what's between their ears. She needs someone smart as you. You've been a great help to her, I know that." Sam had little enough time to bask in a sudden swell of pride before he found Clegane's eyes on him again. "So tell me something, then. If I find myself on my knees and offering up prayers to all the gods I can list, will it be the one I leave out that takes her? I don't guess it will matter, will it? They can all find their way to their own hells if that happens, and stay amongst the damned."

"I understand waiting and not knowing is difficult, but it is not for us to-"

"Aye, I know," Sandor interrupted with a growl. "It is not for us to question their will. I've heard that more bloody times than I care to count. The brothers never did convince me of it. Spent too many years before that questioning nothing and paying for it with precious coin. The quiet there was good for a while, helped me clear my head, but I've never gone too long biting my tongue. I'm certain most were glad to see me take leave of that place."

"I'm sure that's not so."

"Save it for someone else, Maester. Flattery's never been a gambit that's swayed me. That's something you'd do well to remember. Everything don't need to be made pretty. The truth is what it is - just as I am who I am. Neither needs polishing. It's far too late for that." His head tipped back again, his eyes slid shut, and the chamber grew quiet but for the soothing pop and crackle of the fire. Sam turned his eyes to the hearth and got lost in the flames for a time. It wasn't long before he was blinking lazily, his head growing heavy on his neck.

He hadn't slept much since Sansa had suddenly taken ill, just a few odd hours here and there. He knew Sandor had probably seen less. Once they'd deemed the servants who flitted in and out of her chamber inadequate to the task of properly seeing to her needs, it had come down to just the two of them. Sansa was never more than a few minutes without one of them there.

The vigil was harder on the other man than it was on Sam. He'd done little else but care for the Lady of Winterfell, while Sandor had continued to see to all his normal duties besides. As Captain of the Guard, the safety of the castle and its people lay on his shoulders. And if Sam had learned anything about the man lightly dozing across the room, it was that he was wholly committed to fulfilling his duties to Sansa and what remained of House Stark.

Sam was well into that shimmery place just at the edge of sleep when he was abruptly yanked from it by Sandor's throaty rasp. Jerking in his seat, he winced at the twinge in his neck as he twisted to look that way. "Beg pardon?" he said, his voice cracking a bit. "I was … I didn't hear you."

"Are your ears attached to your eyes, then? Close one set and the other stops working? I asked if there's been any word from her sister."

Sitting up, Sam rubbed at his neck and cleared his throat. A raven had been sent to Last Hearth at Sandor's behest not long after Sansa had succumbed to the first awful fever and Sam had confirmed their fears. The Lady Arya had been over a year at the Umber stronghold, traveling there shortly before he had come to Winterfell. The reason for her leave-taking was something Sam had learned early on not to bring up in conversation. Sansa was reticent to speak of it, as were the household servants. And he hadn't worked up the courage to ask Clegane.

"I don't expect the message reached her until early today. Even if she were to leave soon after, the chances of her getting here before…" He let the rest fade away, unwilling to have the words leave his mouth.

Sandor sighed and it soon became a fearsome yawn as he scrubbed at his face. "She'll want a piece of me if things go bad. The little she-wolf never had much use for this dog. Might be Sansa dying is what gives her the excuse she needs to take my head. There's plenty here who'd do it, if she couldn't manage a big enough blade."

"I'm sure Lady Arya would never-" A hoot of laughter stopped him short.

"Lady? Oh, how I'd love to see you call her that to her face. She'd skewer you like a pig on a spit. That's right: you've never had the pleasure, have you? She's a piece of work, that one. Stubborn as a bloody donkey - and not one to forgive much of anything. We shared the road for a while, Arya and I did, before the Great Winter descended. We didn't part on the best of terms." He snorted, adding, "Either time."

Sam couldn't stop himself from asking. "Is that … is that why she left Winterfell?" He was subjected to another lengthy spell of intense scrutiny and tried his best not to squirm under its weight.

"Part of it, yes," Sandor finally said. "As for the rest, that's between her and her sister. But I can tell you-"

From behind him came an unearthly gasp, high and long. Sam was out of his seat and halfway there before Sandor could get his feet under him. Sansa lay rigid on the bed, her back bowed stiff and her arms and legs locked straight. For the first time in two days her eyes were open, staring wide and empty at the timbered ceiling. Sam reached her just as they rolled back white in her head and she fell limp. His heart beat once before the limbs that had been so taut began to flail and her head rolled from side to side. A thin line of spittle escaped from the corner of her mouth.

"She's having a fit," he whispered in horror. And then louder, "She's having a fit!" Without thought he shoved Sandor aside and carefully caught her head in his hands.

"Bloody hells. Bloody hells," came strangled from beside him. Sam let go and blocked the big man with an arm as he started to reach for her.

"No, don't touch her! If you hold her down she'll only hurt herself!" He looked quickly aside and caught a frightfully scarred visage completely drained of color. "Her tongue," he snapped. "She mustn't swallow her tongue! Get something in her mouth. Quickly!" He was aghast when Sandor reached across him, his intent clear: he meant to use his hand. "Not your fingers, you damned fool! She's like to bite them off!"

Sandor drew back. A few seconds later his scabbard clattered as it hit the floor. Another few passed before the man was leaning over again, this time with his belt in hand. "Bloody hells, bloody hells," he chanted. Between the two of them, they forced the flat of the leather between Sansa's teeth.

The spell seemed to go on forever. Samwell had only once before in his life felt so helpless. And that had been as he'd faced an icy death that walked on two feet. This was worse, he realized, as prayers spilled unbidden from his lips.

"Don't you die, little bird," Sandor was bellowing beside him. "Don't you fucking die!"

A lifetime passed before the spasms slowed and then ceased altogether. Sansa lay inert, her nightshift soaked through with sweat, her face pallid and shiny. Sam took up her wrist and gauged the beating of her heart, his eyes squeezed shut as he tried to slow his own and concentrate.

"Is this it?" Sandor muttered. "Is she going?" Sam heard him draw breath, and then came a low moan that died away almost before it began. His eyes flew open in response. Sandor was curled nearly in half over the bed, arms locked tight around his belly, as if he'd been punched there. His thin black hair hung in a veil around his face. "Please," Sam heard him whisper. "Not yet."

Sansa's wrist still held loosely in one hand, he reached up with the other and laid it on Sandor's shoulder. "It's all right, it's passed. You can touch her now, if you'd like." The man lifted his face and looked to him. And he knew as long as he lived, he wouldn't ever forget that moment, that it would haunt him all his days. Never had he seen such wretchedness and want in any man's eyes.

The man nodded and clumsily lowered himself to the edge of the bed, perching there as Sam released Sansa's hand. It was immediately taken up again and cradled in both of Sandor's. "What's happened to her?" he asked.

"I don't know. None of the others suffered this. I don't know," he repeated. "One of the Archmaesters at the Citadel had a theory that some illnesses could change, adapt, when passed from one person to the next, present as a different set of symptoms altogether, even though the source was the same. It was never more than a theory, of course, and many of the others scoffed at the idea. Perhaps they were wrong."

"But is she dying?"

They locked eyes, and this time it was not him who looked away first. Sam was shaken by what had happened, the unexpected awfulness of it, but now was not the time to forget his purpose for being there. He took a moment to settle himself and then bent and laid his ear upon Sansa's chest. A terse assessment of sorts followed, as he gathered what information he could of her current state, gently poking here and there and lifting paper-thin eyelids to peer into distant blue eyes. As he finally straightened, he caught Sandor's cautious glance.

"No, she's not dying. Well," he qualified, "at least no quicker than she was before. Her heart is strong. We can only wait … and hope." He went to the door and pulled it open, calling for a handmaid. It took some time before he was able to persuade Sandor to leave the chamber long enough for them to bathe Sansa and change her linens. He ended up escorting him out, a steady hand on the big man's back, feeling strangely like a father directing his child. In all the time it took them, Sansa remained unresponsive; her only concession to being alive was the steady rise and fall of her chest. Sandor was back at her side just as soon as the handmaiden left with the bundle of soiled linens filling her arms. He'd brought a skin of wine in with him and took a deep draw from it as Sam circled the bed and fetched a stool, settling down on the opposite side. He shook his head at the unspoken offer to share the wineskin and rubbed at tired eyes, eventually lifting them and taking in the tableau across the bed.

Sandor was on his knees again, but if he was doing the praying he'd spoken of earlier, it was silently. Both forearms rested on the bed, one fisted hand propping his chin and the other clasped loosely around Sansa's wrist. Sam found himself in awe at the size of the man's hands compared to hers. They were tanned dark by the sun and sprinkled with scars, liberally covered in hair nearly as black as that on his head and the stubble of his unburnt cheek. Sam looked to Sansa then, with her delicate frame and skin as pale as milk, and hair that shimmered even in the meager light of the candles burning at her bedside. The contrast between the two of them had never been more apparent to him than it was just then.

_Light … and the absence of it_. _One brilliant and beautiful, the other dark and menacing. Two halves_, he realized, _of the same whole. A reflection of what lives within us all._

He was unexpectedly besieged by a deep sadness. It wasn't fair that they might never have the chance to experience what he'd had with Gilly, back before circumstance and fate had separated them. Remembering his sweet girl only served to make him more miserable. It was just as he'd changed his mind and was about to ask for the wineskin that Sandor stirred.

"She was barely more than a child the first time I set eyes on her," he murmured, his rasp more pronounced than ever, as if the words might be choking him. "She was the most beautiful creature I'd ever seen. She still is. Thought that's _all_ she was: a pretty, empty-headed bird. She taught me different. But the things I did … what I said to her and what I didn't, that I should have." He lifted her hand and brushed his lips across her knuckles. "I told her once that I'd keep her safe. But I couldn't, not then. And I cannot now. What good are vows if a man can't keep to them?" Sandor raised his eyes from their clasped hands to Sansa's face and Sam found he had to look away. He hadn't the courage to watch the man weep, not while his own eyes were suddenly filling.

"We cannot always keep our promises," he heard himself saying. "Not even to the ones … the ones we love the most."

"I should have bloody told her," Sandor said, his eyes moving over her face. "I meant to, but it never seemed the right time. I should have said the words. She deserved to hear them."

"It's not too late," Sam declared. "There's still time. Tell her now. What have you to lose?"

He waited for a reply, but none came. At least nothing said aloud. Instead the man's head bent and his brow came to rest on the tangle of their hands. Pushing up from the stool, Sam came around to the table to collect his book and quietly announced his intent to go in search of a late supper. He wasn't particularly hungry, but he felt that an adequate reason to leave them alone was in order. He dawdled for a few seconds, shifting his weight from foot to foot and gazing at Sandor's broad-shouldered back, and then moved toward the door.

"Sam?"

He stopped in his tracks and circled around. It was the first time he could recall Sandor addressing him by his given name. Even so, he hadn't bothered to look his way when he'd done it. All his attention was focused squarely on Sansa.

"Winterfell is a finer place for you being here. You should know that."

Thoroughly flustered by the unexpected words of gratitude - and what he assumed was the reason they'd come at all - he managed a fleeting smile and slipped out of the chamber. Pausing in the hallway in front of the half-open door, Sam swallowed down a clot of shame and lingered there long enough to hear Sandor begin talking in hushed tones. Nodding in satisfaction, he turned and made his way to the kitchens.

He hadn't meant to stay there long, perhaps just enough time to enjoy a cup of cider. But then he found himself poking through the cold pantry and came upon a slab of mutton left over from the evening meal, and roasted neeps and carrots. Soon he was straddling a bench at a small table in one corner of the room, popping chunks of cold meat and vegetables in his mouth as he squinted down at his open book, trying to make out the words by the light of a single candle and finding himself drifting off into thoughts of Gilly instead.

It was Lerta the cook who woke him hours later, briskly jostling his shoulder. "Maester? Maester Samwell, wake up with you, now. Morn is breaking and I've food to put on the tables."

Sam lifted his head from folded arms and furtively wiped the drool from his chin. He blinked stupidly up at the woman and then to the wide windows set into the outer wall. Dawn was indeed upon them and with it, a new day. He rose from the table too fast, half in a panic, and had to steady himself before swinging his leg over the bench. He was trotting toward the door nearest the stairway as Lerta called out, "How did our Lady Sansa fare the evening? Maester?"

He knew it was rude to deny her some kind of answer, but there wasn't time, he had to find out for himself first. He waved away the question and puffed his way up the wide stone staircase, round and round to the uppermost floor, and then down the dim corridor, coming to a stop when he reached the door of Sansa's sleeping chamber.

It stood half-open, just as he'd left it. He didn't know what to expect, and so it came open in slow increments under the weight of his hand. Most of the candles had burned down to stubs and the lantern on the mantle was sputtering its way out. The fire had grown cold in the hearth. But two wide strips of sunlight cut their way into the room through half-drawn curtains, painting golden swaths across the floor and over the bed.

He couldn't see Sansa at all, hidden as she was behind the man's sheer size. If Sandor had moved from his spot at her side during the night, it wasn't apparent. The only difference was that he seemed to be sleeping now, his head dropped down onto one arm and the emptied wineskin at his bent elbow. It took Sam a long while before his mind caught up with his eyes, and he blinked rapidly to make sure of what he was seeing. There at the crown of Sandor's head hovered a hand, lifting and falling in tiny movements, fingers leisurely combing through the black hair. Sam mouthed a fraction of a prayer and moved further into the room, edging to one side. A wide plank in the floor creaked under his weight just as he came around the bed, and Sansa's eyes flew open at the sound. There was a flicker of alarm in them as they darted to find him, but it quickly faded under the warmth of the smile she gave him as she lifted a finger to her lips to shush him. Sam stood frozen to the spot, mouth agape at the answered prayer before him.

And then Sansa whispered, "He's had too much wine."

Choking back what he knew would've been a sob of laughter had he allowed it, Sam bent low and whispered back, "No, not too much wine, my lady. Too little sleep. How do you feel?"

Her brow wrinkled for a moment and then smoothed again. "I feel … new." She shifted her gaze back to Sandor. "Is he well?"

Sam nodded and then blurted nonsensically, "He loves you very much."

Sansa looked up at him with eyes that held all the mysteries of the world and he believed, in that moment, that it was as she'd said, and he was seeing in her something brand new. So it really didn't come as much of a surprise when Sansa leaned toward him and whispered conspiratorially, "I know. That's why I've come back."

Whatever response he might've given vanished as Sandor began to stir. It started in his shoulders, a slight shifting as he came awake. A muffled groan issued from him as he turned his face into his arm and began to lift his head. Sam didn't even have to think about what to do. He began backing out the room, knowing that whatever might happen next, it wasn't for him to witness.

As he reached the doorway and turned to leave, he heard Sandor speak her name. Unable to resist the temptation, he glanced back for one last look. Sansa's arms were open and beckoning as the man moved to crawl onto the bed, her features serene and her smile as radiant as the new day's dawn. Sandor was settling himself beside her and gathering her close as Sam pulled the door closed behind him.

* * *

**A/N: **This one is for Kallie, whose art continues to amaze and inspire me. Thank you for creating the piece that planted the seed from which this story grew.

A shout-out to smallestgrackle, whose soundtrack for her awesome fic, 'Kindred,' became the soundtrack for this one as well. You have fabulous taste in music, my dear, and 'The Road' will haunt me for all my days.

Thanks also to everyone who's waited so patiently and continued to offer their support and encouragement as I picked away at the barricade that was my latest bout of writer's block. It means more to me than you'll ever know. Though this one might be a bit rusty, I tried my best to make it worth the wait. I hope it brings you some measure of enjoyment.

Until the next time ...


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